


Inspiration

by sinnerforhire



Series: 365 Days of J2 Fanfic [8]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First Kiss, Jensen Plays Guitar, M/M, Painting, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8870137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnerforhire/pseuds/sinnerforhire
Summary: Jared has writer's block, but then a prompt inspires him to write about meeting Jensen.





	

Jared ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He’d been sitting at his desk, staring at the blank page and the blinking cursor, for almost half an hour. Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the week before that. He’d tried everything he could think of to break through his writer’s block, even trying something completely out of his creative wheelhouse—painting. He’d gotten himself a tabletop easel, a canvas, a set of acrylic paints, and a few brushes in a box set that was on sale for the holidays. 

Jensen had been supportive at first, but when it came time to reveal the finished painting, Jensen had just stared at it in silence until Jared finally said, “What do you think?”

“What is it supposed to _be_?” 

Jared gestured at the canvas. “It’s a forest. See? There’s a deer, and there’s the creek, and those are clouds above the trees.”

“Why did you decide to go abstract with it?”

Jared glared at him. “I didn’t.”

Jensen’s face fell. “Shit, Jay, I—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Jared sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s terrible. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Jensen put his arm around Jared’s shoulder. “You wanted to try something new. There’s nothing wrong with that. Did you have fun?”

“I guess.” Jared shrugged. “A little.”

“So, fine art isn’t for you.” Jensen kisses Jared’s temple. “Why don’t you go write about it?”

Jared tried, he really did, but the words wouldn’t come. He didn’t want to write about being a failure, about being a washed-up novelist grasping desperately at straws. His first book hadn’t exactly been a best-seller, but it had sold enough to justify a second, which had sold a whole lot better, and then all of a sudden he had fans and a reputation to uphold and the words had just dried up.

Jared opened _The Writer’s Book of Days_ and flipped to the December section. The prompt for December 16 was “Write what is meant to be remembered.” Jared looked at the picture frames on his desk: Jensen and him at the beach during Senior Week, Jensen playing with the dogs in the snow, and their wedding portrait, Jared in his white tux and Jensen in his black one, sun glinting off their hair, Jensen’s gorgeous green eyes sparkling in the sunlight. 

_What is meant to be remembered._ There’s so much he could write about Jensen that it’s hard to pick a starting point. He takes a deep breath.

_The first time I saw you, you were standing in the doorway of Bricker Hall with a cardboard box in your arms. You were wearing a blue t-shirt and gray cargo shorts, and your hair was short and spiky, and I took one look at your plump pink lips and your bright green eyes and those adorable freckles all over your face and all I could think was, “dear God, he’s pretty.” And then I told God I would never ask for anything again if he would just help me get a date with you._

_And then I saw you walk to the door of my room and unlock the door, and my knees went weak and my mouth went dry because all I could think was,_ what if he isn’t gay? How will I survive a whole year of being able to look but not touch? Will I have to get a new roommate? What if he’s a total jerk? What if he’s a homophobe? What if he hates me? _And then you turned and looked at me and you smiled so wide, so bright, and I knew everything would be okay._

 _I walked into the room and you had put your box down on the bed on the left, which was the one I was hoping you’d want, because I wanted the other one. And you said, “Hey, I’m Jensen. Are you Jared?”_

_I nodded, and you held out your hand. I took it, and you pulled me into a hug even though we had never met, and that’s the moment that I knew you and I were meant to be._

_That night, you showed me your guitar and you took it out back and sat under a tree and played the songs you liked, and people came and went but I sat there the whole time, transfixed by you, wondering how you were real, because I knew nobody was perfect, but you were really,_ really _damn close. And then, once it started to get dark, you set the guitar aside and grabbed my hand and pulled me close and whispered, “I hope you want this as much as I do,” and then you pressed your lips to mine. Time seemed to stop, and my whole body seemed to go numb except for your soft, supple lips on mine. The tip of your tongue brushed my lips and I let you in, and your fingers slid up my neck and into my hair, and then you pulled back and murmured, “We gotta take this inside.”_

 _So you took my hand and pulled me to my feet and didn’t let go until we were back inside our room and you had to lock the door. You pulled your shirt off, and so did I, and the room was dark except for the light of the waxing moon and the soft blue glow of the security light on the opposite building. You had sheets on your bed, blue striped ones, and we lay down and made out in the dark, learning each other’s bodies, soft curves and sharp angles and broad, flat planes of warm, soft skin, and I teased you about your freckles and you blushed, which hid them for an instant, but you knew it was all in fun, and you teased me about my huge feet and shaggy hair and the dimples that you claimed were what made you fall for me._

_We didn’t go any further than that, because we both wanted to get to know each other better before we jumped into the metaphorical bed together, and I went back to my own cramped, narrow bed and we told our best high school stories until we finally fell asleep, and when I woke up in the morning, I looked at you and I thought,_ I want to do this every day for the rest of my life.

_I’m so glad you let me._

Jared sat back in his chair and read over what he’d written. It was a total mess, grammatically and stylistically, but it was satisfying in a way his writing hadn’t been in a long time. 

However, it couldn’t compare to the real thing, so Jared saved the document and went out to the living room, where Jensen was curled up on the couch with Icarus at his feet and Oscar sacked out on the floor in front of him. Jared gently nudged Icarus off the couch and took his place, pressing a tender kiss to Jensen’s lips. 

“You’re in a good mood,” said Jensen, smiling. “Did you write something?”

Jared grinned back. “I did. And now I want you to give me something to write about.”

“So I’m your muse?”

“You inspire me,” murmured Jared, slipping a hand under Jensen’s shirt.

“Can I inspire you in the bedroom?” 

Jared smacked Jensen’s ass. “Lead the way.”


End file.
